


Let's Go to Bed

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hotel Sex, M/M, Romance, Viagra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are two very busy men, and so when their schedules overlap, they are determined to make the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Go to Bed

Mycroft smoothed down his hair as the car crept along through the morning traffic on the A40. He adjusted his already-straight tie and then discreetly huffed against the palm of his hand to check the state of his breath. Then he craned his neck, attempting to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the rear view mirror. 

"You look fine, sir," his assistant said. Her eyes were fixed to her mobile as she tapped at the virtual keyboard.

The corners of Mycroft's mouth turned down, and he was weighing whether or not to dignify that with a response when a traffic light changed in their favour and the car made two quick turns before pulling up in front of the hotel. In light of his good mood, he settled on a bland smile in her direction as he unbuckled his seat belt and uttered those three little words that so rarely passed between them:

"Hold my calls."

The Langham was a welcome respite from the irritating flicker of summer heat and rush hour noise that had assaulted him in the dozen steps between the car and the front doors. It was cool and quiet inside the gracious lobby, and empty save for a banker ensconced in one of the armchairs, frowning over that morning's _Times_ sudoku puzzle, and a French tourist—an academic, or perhaps a novelist—in the middle of checking in. 

Mycroft bypassed the front desk and headed directly to the lift. Once inside, he pushed the appropriate button and then adjusted his lapels and cuffs, humming a little bit of _Don Giovanni_ under his breath. 

The lift chimed when it reached his floor, and he stepped out into the empty corridor and proceeded with what he felt was admirable restraint to the appointed room. He smoothed down his hair once more and then raised his fist to knock, but before his knuckles could make contact with the door, it flew open on well-oiled hinges and he found himself yanked inside by way of his necktie.

He was caught and spun off-balance. The door slammed behind him as his back hit the wall, and only a considerate hand cushioning his head prevented a more concussive collision as he was kissed as though lives were on the line.

His knees nearly sagged. A frisson of pleasure shivered through him, and he yielded most amenably. His arms wrapped around a set of broad shoulders, and his lips parted at the flicker of a tongue, and he drank in through heavy-lidded eyes the lovely sight of fluttering eyelashes and straight brows raised in savouring satisfaction. The kiss pressed from both sides, insistent for a long moment, and then it eased back to a sweet caress.

"Mycroft," Kingsley murmured warmly. The word puffed softly against his chin.

He smiled foolishly. "Kingsley."

"How are you?" Kingsley's lips trailed down Mycroft's cheek.

Mycroft tilted his head, granting better access as he let an arm slide down around Kingsley's waist. "Quite well, thank you."

He could feel the subtle rise and fall of Kingsley's chest as he drew breath and the low rumble of his voice reverberating through flesh and bone as he spoke: "Would you like a drink?"

To be completely candid, what Mycroft would like best would be to grab two handfuls of Kingsley's shirt and pull him even closer for another long kiss. He would like to sink to his knees, right there on the plush carpet, and unzip Kingsley's impeccably tailored trousers. He would like to spread Kingsley out on the bed and undress him slowly and thoroughly, his mouth upon every inch of skin that he bared.

Anticipation, however, added sauce to the dish. And Kingsley had excellent taste in drink besides. 

"Thank you," he said, the crisp politeness in his voice perhaps belied by the pass of his hand over Kingsley's backside.

They sat together in a pair of comfortable plum-coloured armchairs, making small talk about the uncommon heat this summer and indulging in the usual complaints about work. The whisky was from Kingsley's private stock—a variety of scotch that could not be sold outside of one northern municipality and a four-block area of central London. Mycroft sipped it slowly, letting the smoky flavour linger in his mouth. As per the relevant restrictions, he could not legally own a bottle of the stuff, but his inclination towards restraint helped him appreciate this limitation. The whisky was delicious, and the flavour of it was bound up entirely with the taste of Kingsley's skin and the warmth and scent of him. To indulge alone would be hedonistic at best and maudlin at worst.

When his glass was nearly empty, Mycroft drew a small case from his front pocket and removed from it a blue pill, which he washed down with the last smooth mouthful of firewhisky. Kingsley reached into his jacket and withdrew in turn a little glass vial containing a semi-transparent liquid. He uncorked the bottle and then drank the contents down in one swallow.

"What can I tell my mother about Christmas this year?" Kingsley asked, slipping the empty vial back into his pocket.

It was July, which was rather last-minute as such thing stood, but Mycroft had already been at the December calendar with a pencil. "I can't make any promises for Christmas Day, but I ought to be able to manage Boxing Day lunch."

"We'll be at Aunt Marie's on the 26th, if you can possibly bear another aged admirer who wants to pinch your cheeks and fatten you up."

Mycroft ran a self-effacing hand down his front. "Well. Christmas does come but once a year."

Kingsley chuckled. "How is that brother of yours?"

"Sherlock is, as ever, Sherlock. He has a new flatmate."

"Oh? How long will this one last, do you think?"

Mycroft considered the question, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. "If he isn't gone within the week, I suspect he might just stay. He's an interesting man. Formerly military. A doctor."

"A _doctor_. He could do worse. Tennyson's newest is a healer, by coincidence. He met her at the hospital. He splinched himself, if you can believe it—forty-two years old, and he sneezes in mid-apparition and ends up leaving his foot in his front room—"

In a way, it was impossible for Mycroft _not_ to be listening at any given time. His sensory input and short-term memory operated seamlessly without need for the conscious initiation that others called paying attention. The whole charmingly told and fantastical anecdote was appropriately recorded, but he allowed Kingsley's words to sink down into an even lower register, practically sub-vocal, and primarily preoccupied himself with staring adoringly.

There were times—brief and always in private, lest he tempt fate—when he wished he could put Kingsley and Sherlock in the same room and then sit back and watch the latter attempt to deduce the details of the former. 

Kingsley Edwin Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, was through a perceptive stranger's eyes a tall and handsome man of Anglo-Caribbean extraction. He was intelligent, confident, and well-bred. The way he moved and observed spoke of a background in law enforcement. The way he spoke confided a present career in politics. His about-town suit was from Mycroft's own tailor—not cheap—and fit him devastatingly well. His pocket watch was of recent construction but of notably antique technology. His shoes were made of a material that looked like snakeskin but wasn't. He smelled pleasantly of an unidentifiable soap and subtle cologne. His accent could not be precisely placed, save perhaps by a particularly keen student of historical linguistics.

Of course, if this perceptive stranger were his brother, he would not be able to perceive just how desirable a man Kingsley Shacklebolt was. That was a thought that kept Mycroft acceptably warm in the weeks and often months when their schedules would not permit more than a few hand-written letters and the occasional and brief evening visit. 

"Are you listening to me?" Kingsley's tone was not accusative, but merely amused.

Mycroft felt his smile widen, and he put down his drink and got to his feet. "No."

Kingsley reached out as he approached and curled a hand around his hip. Mycroft steadied himself on the arm of the chair as he leaned down and kissed him. He breathed in, re-cataloguing scents and refreshing the memories of sensation. Kingsley's mouth tasted of firewhisky and a hint of sweetness from the concoction he'd drunk. The heat of his hand bled through Mycroft's clothes, shockingly hot and intimate after six weeks' abstention.

A half-step back was all the invitation that was needed. Kingsley rose smoothly and advanced, pushing him gently down on the bed and kissing him soundly. The finer points of the education system in that strange pocket of Britain that stood largely outside his purview were still a mystery to Mycroft, but he'd had cause to reflect more than once on the certainty that Kingsley Shacklebolt possessed some manner of advanced qualification in heavy petting. 

Their limbs entwined comfortably as lazy kisses were exchanged and clothing was tugged at it in anticipatory increments like the wrapping paper on a birthday gift. His fingers slipped between the gaps in Kingsley's shirtfront as he worked at its buttons. One waistcoat and then the other ended up flung over the side of the bed without care. Braces were un-clipped and collars loosened. Mycroft's tie slid from around his neck in a slither of silk as his hand found its way first into Kingsley's back pocket and then down the back of his trousers. 

Pants, socks, vests—all were inched down, eased off, or tossed aside in turn, and then Mycroft found himself on his back, naked and aroused, with Kingsley leaving determined suck-marks on his stomach. His fingertips dug first into the duvet and then into Kingsley's shoulders as he spread his legs wider with an encouraging sigh.

Another mark was placed on his hip with a red flare of teeth and suction. This one would linger—he could feel it—and he knew he would be touching it in idle moments for a week to come. Then the wet heat moved down, a gentler pressure around his testicles that nonetheless made him cry out where half-vicious bites had not.

"Oh!" He exhaled violently and shut his eyes.

Kingsley hummed, a low and teasing sound that vibrated against his sensitive skin. Mycroft held very still as the sensation of lips and tongue increased, leaning just to the pleasurable side of too much. His sex grew harder, curving above his stomach and beading with moisture at the tip as Kingsley's oh-so-careful mouth tightened.

His fingers ventured blindly across Kingsley's bare shoulders and then the smooth, shaved back of his head. His abdomen tightened at the whisper of teeth, and his thighs trembled.

"Please," he whispered. 

Kingsley gave him one final suck before withdrawing, and then he ceased his torment and licked his way from the root of Mycroft's sex to its head before taking him fully into his mouth and bringing him off with practiced and hungry generosity. 

Mycroft gasped, his hands clutching tightly and his back arching as his climax shook him. Kingsley swallowed his spending, carrying him through the after-trembles with teasing little licks before pulling back and rubbing a cheek fondly against Mycroft's hip. 

Another soft bite sank into the border of his trunk and thigh.

"I'd very much like," Kingsley said, "to fuck you now."

Mycroft hummed obligingly, his eyes still shut and his heart still beating hard.

He heard the sound of the bedside drawer sliding open. A familiar jar clunked quietly on the table. Obviously Kingsley had stashed it away prior to his arrival. He did love a man with organizational skills. Pity that his own seemed to go out the window whenever his clothes came off; there was a long, patient silence until he finally opened his eyes. Kingsley smiled and rubbed his fingers together, miming a foil packet.

"In my jacket," Mycroft said, and he wiggled backwards with as much dignity as could be afforded by the position, gathering the pillows behind his back. They made some rather wonderful organic lubricant in Kingsley's part of the city, but they had not ventured past sheepskin in the prophylactic department.

Kingsley provided a rather nice view as he hung over the side of the bed, riffling through their discarded clothes until he found the condoms, which he wielded with a flourish. Mycroft closed his eyes again, relaxing into the pillows and enjoying the feeling of Kingsley's slippery fingers first against him and then inside him. The heavy pleasure lingered in his loins, and his sex lazily roused itself as Kingsley thoroughly prepared him. 

Then the fingers withdrew and Kingsley settled between his legs. Mycroft shifted, rearranging for best access. His head tipped back as Kingsley pushed into him.

"Mm!" He had to bite his lip to muffle the sound as he was breached, stretched pleasantly until the hard, thick length of Kingsley's sex was fully seated. 

Kingsley stroked his thigh and nuzzled his ear, still for a moment before beginning a slow, rocking rhythm.

"Did you..." Mycroft made a vague hand gesture that could not be seen behind Kingsley's back. Being sodomized was no cause for embarrassment at this point, but speaking of the supernatural always left him slightly at a loss for words.

"You can be as loud as you want to," Kingsley replied, the smile audible in his voice.

"Oh, thank goodness," he muttered, his breath catching at the end of it as Kingsley's hips rolled, sending a pleasant spark through him.

Slow quickly turned to needful, and soon the mattress was shifting precariously beneath them and the duvet was working its way off the bed with every thrust. Mycroft moaned low, something resembling the first half of a happy "harder" tripping from his lips, and only his habit of scheduling a timely manicure prior to their rendezvous saved Kingsley's back from being scratched to ribbons.

"Oh! Oh God, yes!" he cried as Kingsley braced himself against the headboard and drove into him with a flurry of lustful strokes that heralded Kingsley's lovely climax in a desperate clutch of sweat and flesh and clumsy kisses.

Afterwards, clean-up achieved and duvet retrieved, they lounged on the bed with another glass of firewhisky each. Mycroft was hard again, rather imperatively so, and the moment that Kingsley's empty glass was set down on the bedside table, Mycroft eased him over half onto his stomach and kissed the back of his neck persuasively. He let the last drops of his drink drip along the smooth line of Kingsley's backbone and then licked it up from his faintly salty skin. 

Kingsley stretched out, moaning softly as his broad shoulders were lavishly kissed. Mycroft reached for the lubricant and condoms, fingers busy as he bit softly at Kingsley's neck and then let his teeth close around the little gold hoop in his earlobe, gently tugging. A few oily strokes of his own sex later, he was eagerly nudging Kingsley knee up and pressing into him.

He sighed in pleasure as he was enveloped in tight, slick heat. He rested his brow against Kingsley's shoulder as he moved leisurely. His hand wandered the firm planes of Kingsley's body: his tapered waist, his half-hard sex, his heavy stones. The last, he teased, retaliating for the rough treatment of Kingsley's mouth earlier. They were rolled in his palm, gently squeezed until they drew up and Kingsley made a sound somewhere growl and a purr.

"Bastard," Kingsley said, his voice straining around a chuckle.

"Mm," Mycroft hummed in his agreement as he eased off, and Kingsley caught his hand and laced their fingers together.

His second spending of the morning was not quite as urgent as the first, but it rippled deeply through him, bolstered by Kingsley's little sounds of idle pleasure and the squeeze of his hand. 

"A shower, I think," Mycroft mused breathlessly afterwards. They were both well-exerted and oil-smudged, and the sharp scent of latex persisted.

"You have the best ideas," Kingsley said, rolling onto his back and stretching shamelessly.

The bathroom was cool and spacious, with a shower large enough to comfortably accommodate two tall men. Mycroft caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as the water temperature adjusted, and he wrinkled his nose at the sight. His hair was in complete disarray, sticking up in curls and cowlicks. He was flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears, and there was a vivid red mark on his cheek where he had rested it too long against the firm curve of Kingsley's shoulder.

Kingsley, in contrast, looked absolutely delectable: sweat-sheened and smug, and as formidable without his clothes on as he was in a three-piece suit or one of his fetching historically hodgepodge ensembles. 

"Come on," Kingsley said, wrapping an arm around him from behind and looking at him fondly in the mirror before pulling him into the shower.

The spray fell lightly, warm and refreshing. Mycroft swallowed a sound of protest as Kingsley backed him up against the wall and frotted against his stomach. He was starting to chafe a little, and his sex felt heavy and overworked as it stirred again under Kingsley's lazy grinding. As young and relatively carefree as Kingsley could make him feel at times, it was the drugs carrying him now, pushing him to respond when he might otherwise be wholly exhausted. 

Then again, he thought as his sex prevailed in the battle against gravity and good sense, they still had an hour ahead of them, and he did like to make full use of their time. It was this attitude that was going to lead one of them to a heart attack one of these days, but as Mycroft was fairly certain it would be him and not Kingsley, that suited him just fine.

"I need a shower like this one at my house," Kingsley said, taking them both in hand and stroking firmly. 

"I'm certain you could have one installed," Mycroft said, his fingertips running up and down Kingsley's slippery back before venturing between his buttocks and playing with his still-slick backside.

Kingsley's breath caught, his grasp tightening and his thumb rubbing over the head of Mycroft's sex. "Then I'll need you to come over and be naked in it all the time."

"That," Mycroft said, pausing to apply teeth to neck when he felt the pulse of Kingsley's sex, "might take some scheduling."

Kingsley grinned and then carefully got to his knees. His mouth was cooler than the shower spray, almost soothing, and Mycroft shut his eyes with a smile and let the water stream down him as he was played to completion. 

Room service was henceforth ordered, and they lay on the bed wrapped in ample terrycloth robes, eating finger food and idly watching a panel show on the television. They each seemed to get one joke in every three, which resulted in just enough overlap to count towards normalcy and enough difference to fuel conversation in the pursuit of cultural exchange.

"What's a Cillit Bang?" Kingsley asked, biting neatly through a piece of prosciutto-wrapped melon.

"Some sort of cleaning product, I believe," Mycroft said as the television audience roared with laughter and the presenter waggled his eyebrows. 

"Oh." There was a pause as the panel cracked wise, and then a moment later, Kingsley said: "I take it that was a political joke."

Mycroft stole the last prawn. "Mm. About the leader of the Lib Dems."

"Oh yes," Kingsley said vaguely. "I've met him."

"So have I."

Kingsley reached for the remote control and by now was adept enough with the technology to switch off the television on the first try. His hand soon after slipped under Mycroft's robe.

Mycroft's throat made a dry sound that was assuredly a stray bit of black pepper and not a whimper. "I think I'm done, I'm afraid."

"Are you sure?" Kingsley asked. His hand was compelling and burning hot against Mycroft's oversensitive skin.

With an almost painful twitch, Mycroft's sex began to swell. He affected a disapproving moue. "You always have to have the last word, don’t you?"

Kingsley smiled without sign of repentance. "I like..." he began to say and then shook his head in apparent rue.

"What?" Mycroft asked, looking down at the sight of himself in Kingsley's able hand.

"I like the way you look when you think you should say no but you don't want to. I like to remember that. It tides me over."

That would require further dissection later, but there was something about the fond wistfulness around the edges of Kingsley's voice that made him lie back and submit. 

"If you insist."

His robe was un-belted and opened fully, and Kingsley stretched out beside him, kissing his cheek and watching his face as he stroked him off with a loose curl of a hand and a circling thumb. The sensation hovered halfway between pleasure and discomfort, sharp and dull, caressing and grating. He was reminded of his school days and the feeling of frotting off against another boy with several purportedly heterosexuality-preserving layers of clothing between them, the friction almost as hard to bear as the hunger.

There, then, it had been carefully averted eyes and gritting teeth. Here, however, Kingsley gazed steadily at him, his warm brown eyes full of affection. Mycroft bit his tongue, fidgeting, trying to pull away from the stimulation and push into it at once. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes until Kingsley took him by the wrist and made him stop. 

He breathed out shakily, his muscles tensing as every stroke wrapped around him like strangle-vine and thorns. His head lolled, and he felt it as his body crossed that last hurdle—the terrible heat now coming from inside him instead of from the pressure of Kingsley's hand.

"There," Kingsley said quietly, something almost tender in his voice. "There we go. First it’s _I can’t_ and then it’s _I need_. Just like the first time. _We shouldn’t_ , you said. But we did, and it was amazing. It’s always amazing."

"If you plan to stop," Mycroft said, his voice ragged and his eyes almost stinging as his body pushed to its finish, "I will..."

"Shh," Kingsley hushed. "Just...."

Then warm lips descended upon Mycroft's, and the strong hand around him cruelly, mercifully wrenched one final, nearly dry spending from him. 

"Oh," Mycroft murmured, phosphenes dancing before his eyes. " _Oh_."

A proper and rather more propriety-minded shower was called for, with Mycroft standing clear of the worst of the spray's cool sting. They dressed afterwards and straightened the room, and Kingsley drew from his belt a long wooden wand, from which he conjured a violet light and a straightening of clothes. Mycroft felt as though he'd abruptly passed through a cloud of hot steam, his suit as good as pressed. He rubbed his jacket between thumb and finger, but as ever, he could detect no heat or residue.

"How's your Wednesday next?" Kingsley had already re-holstered his wand and had his diary in hand. 

Mycroft turned his mobile back on—sixteen unread messages—and scrolled through his calendar. "Abroad. The next Sunday?"

"Ritual with the Wizengamot. Long story. The Tuesday after that?"

"I'll be getting in from the airport in the late afternoon."

"I might be able to stop by the flat in the evening if you'll be in."

Mycroft nodded and made a note. "Do use the door. You gave the housekeeper a fright last time."

"I sent word in advance," Kingsley pointed out.

"By way of a bird pecking at my bedroom window."

"You need an owl."

"You need a BlackBerry."

"Mm-hm." Kingsley kissed him. "I'll see you then."

Mycroft hesitated only a moment, giving Kingsley's arm a fond squeeze. Then he pocketed his mobile with a smile and stepped out into the corridor. He shut the door behind him and then stood there for nearly a minute, his hand still on the doorknob, listening for the moment when the quiet of an occupied room became the silence of an empty one.

He shook his head, and then, humming happily—if walking rather bowleggedly—he messaged his driver to come pick him up.


End file.
